I FOUND MYSELF saying the Gayathri mantra as we landed at Santa Cruz. I had said it flay after day, almost for twenty years; I must have said it a million million times: 'OM, O face of Truth with a disk of Gold, remove the mist (of ignorance) that I may see you face to face.' But this time I said it quietly, tenderly, as one speaks to something near, breathful, intimate. It was India I wanted to see, the India of my inner being. Just as I could now see antara-Kasi, the 'inner Benares', India for me became no land-not these trees, this sun, this earth; not those ladle-hands and skeletal legs of bourgeois and coolie; not even the new pride of the uniformed Indian official, who seemed almost to say, 'Don't you see, I am Indian now, and I represent the Republic of India'--but something other, more centred, widespread, humble; as though the gods had peopled the land with themselves, as the trees had forested the country, rivers flowed and named themselves, birds winged themselves higher and yet higher, touched the clouds and soared beyond, calling to each other over the valleys by their names. The India of Brahma and Frajapathi; of Varuna, Mithra and Aryaman; of Indra, of Krishna, Shiva, and Parvathi; of Rama, Harishchandra, and Yagnyavalkya; this India was a continuity I felt, not in time but in space; as a cloud that stands over a plain might say, 'Here I am and I pour-and goes on pouring. The waters of that rain have fertilized our minds and hearts, and being without time they are ever present. It is perhaps in this sense that India is outside history. A patch of triangular earth, surrounded by the three seas, somehow caught the spirit without time, and established it in such a way that you can see the disk of gold Shine miles above the earth. And as the plane cuts through the night of the Persian Gulf, you feel a streak of gold, a benevolent cerulean green, that you want to touch, to taste, to rememorate unto yourself. You feel it belongs to you, be you Indian, Chinese, French, Alaskan, or Honduran. It is something that history has reserved for her self, just as humans reserve an area of their own being, known but hardly used, it exists, as it were, for one's rarer moments: in the simplicity of dusk, in the breath after poetry; in the silence after death, in the space of love; in the affirmation of deep sleep; an area all known but atemporal, where you see yourself face to face.
That is the India I glimpsed-and lost again, as the customs officials called and the coolies clamoured. The hideousness of Bombay hurt me as only an impersonal falsehood can hurt. But I quickly took a bath at the Taj, and drove back to Santa Cruz, where once again on the green of the airfield I was back in the intuition of India. All the way to Hyderabad I looked down on hills, trains, plains, and villages, on rivers and roads-O those endless white lines, between streaks of yellow, maroon, and green! Soon I would be at Hyderabad.
I remembered how the city was founded. The King of Gol- conda, so the story goes, was ill and impoverished, despite his celebrated diamonds. His Prime Minister, a Brahmin, was deeply concerned over the finances of the State. There were enemies abroad-the Moghuls on the one side and the Marathas on the other. But one night, as the Prime Minister lay in anxiety, restless and concerned over the fate of his Sovereign, he saw a great spread of unearthly green and peacock-blue light, and he saw the bejewelled form of Devi, processioning in the sky.. 'Where may'st thou be going, and who may'st thou be, Goddess, Auspicious Lady?' he asked. 'I am Lakshini,' she said, 'and I go to the Himalayas, to Brahma my lord.' 'Couldst thou not, Lady, stay a while, just a moment, just a trice, the time a man takes to open his eyes and shut, and I shall call my King my Liege, that he behold thy beautiful form.' 'Earnest thou art, and thus the prayers be answered,' she said. So our Brahmin, with turban, cummerbund, and tight trousers, ran up the hill and stood before his King. The night was vast and very luminous. "There She stands, over across the river. She awaits us. Come, my Liege, My Sire.' Hassan Qutub Shah went in, and soon came out dressed, sword and buckle in hand. He looked from his high, round citadel towards the luminous sky, and across the river.
As the Brahmin bent low showing his Liege the way, the King cut him in two, that the Goddess of Wealth, Lakshmi, might reside in his Kingdom. So he rode down to the Goddess on his white charger, and said, 'My Prime Minister, Great Lady of the Lotus, will never return. I have killed him that thou mightst remain here for ever and ever.' And Hassan Qutub Shah built her a temple with four spires, as though it were a mosque, and she resides with us, the Goddess does, to this very day.... She shines on our coins, does Laxshmi, as Bhagyavathi and that is why we call our city Bhagyanagar-city of beautiful wealth, for Hyderabad is but a vulgar homonym.
I hadn't told Little Mother the day and the hour of my arrival. I wanted so much to surprise them all-I thought it would re- move from them the sense of distance, of unfamiliarity, of other- ness. It was about the middle of the day when I arrived home. The gate was closed, and when I opened the door, Tiger, the dog, made a lot of angry manifestations against me, till he fell flat before me, helpless, and begged for forgiveness: "The Master of the House had come.' I could see that the water-tap in the garden still needed mending, and as I went up the steps and peeped in, the house was one knit silence. I knocked, and Little Mother said, 'Who's there?' from the sanctum. From her voice I knew she must be at prayer. 'The son is come home,' I shouted back. And you could have heard Little Mother's sobbing voice even from the door.
'You've come,' she said, and being in sacred clothes she would not touch me. I brought the luggage in-the servants had gone for their siesta and noon-day meal-sent the taxi away, and went for my bath towards the familiar, warm, soot-covered bathroom. I saw the ever-active wall lizards over the stores, and peeped out to see if the papaya and the moon-guavas were in fruit in the back-yard. I took the huge ladle-jug of the bathroom and saying 'Ganga, Jumña, Saraswathi,' poured water over myself; then, dressed in a dhoti, I went into the sanctum. Little Mother was still praying the gods were covered with flowers-the casket of the gods was the same that Grandfather Kittanna had brought from Benares, and it was thence that Little Mother had taken the family toe-rings to give to me. Drawing Father's wooden seat before the gods I sat with Little Mother, thinking of Grandfather Ramanna, who had given me the love of Shiva and Parvathi, the worship of incarnations; who had first whispered unto my ear the Gayathri, 'OM, O face of Truth....
Sridhara woke up, and I told Little Mother to continue her prayers while I went to swing the cradle. I remembered a beautiful berceuse, the one with which I used to send Saroja to sleep, and I sang it to Sridhara.
The Swan is swinging the cradle, baby, saying 'I am That', That I am quietly; She swings it beautifully, baby, Abandoning actions and hours.
Sridhara had no illusions as to who was at the cradle-it was not his mother. He cried and cried, till Little Mother came and talked to him and the noon silence fell on the house again. 'It's Saturday today, and you've come just in time for the story of Rama,' said Little Mother, and seating me beside her, she told me once again the story of Rama....
'Once upon a time there was a Brahmin, and he said to him- self, "Oh, I am growing old; I want to go to Benares." And so he called his Son and said, "son, Brahma Bhatta, I am growing old, I've grey hairs on my skull, and my body is parched like a banana skin. I must now go to Benares. Keep Mother and the cattle in good state, and I leave you this House of Nine-Pillars, and the wet-fields and my good name. Look after them then, Son, for a twelve-year."
As the Father ordains, so it shall be," said Brahma Bhatta. And the Father said, turning to his sacral-wife Bhagirathi, "And so, Wife, I go and come." And she wept and made many holy requests, and she said, "Yes, but what about this Daughter?" The Father said, "O give her to me, and I'll have her wed on the way." And he took his female child on his shoulder-she was but seven years old and with music in front and fife and elders he came to the Village-gate. The villagers wept and made ceremonies of departure, and the wife fell at the feet of her Lord and said, "Well, he goes, my Lord, to Benares; to bring light on the manes." And she asked, "What may we do meanwhile?" And he said, "Wife, my sweet-half, keep the house clear and auspicious; the Son will look after the home and cattle. And when Saturday comes-just tell the Story of Rama." And the Son fell at the feet of Ishwara Bhatta, and said, "Yes, indeed, Father." They all stood at the village-gate, where the road bent by the Chapel-of-Swinging-the-Swing-in-Spring, and the giant mango tree, and then he was gone, was Ishwara Bhatta, beyond the folds of the hills, across the river-to Benares.
'So while Ishwara Bhatta wended his way upwards to Benares, Brahma Bhatta said to his Mother Bhagirathi, "When Saturday comes, Mother, we'll tell the story of Rama." and he looked round, and the house was very bright with vessels and decora- tions and with cattle that lowed in the cattle-yard. Peasants came and peasants went, some measuring rice, others cutting shoots and vines; some drawing water, others sharpening the shares; while the maid-servants plastered and washed the floors with cow-dung, and Bhagirathi covered the threshold with red- lead and drew sacred designs before the main portals: pentagons of lotuses and mandalas many and sumptuous.
'Now the traveller had gone away, and when he had gone but a few leagues he rested. He cooked, said his prayers, ate, gave food to his daughter; and when evening came he meditated, and spreading his bedding said, "Lord!" and went to sleep. In the morning, shivering, he went to the river, bathed and took the bathed girl to the Temple; and before the Sun had said, "I am there," he had started again on his pilgrimage.
'Now league after league had gone, and day after day, and days turned into weeks, and weeks into many moon-months; and when he came to the banks of the Nerbuda, he saw an ascetic seated in firm meditation. And when he had approached the ascetic and offered many courtesies, Ishwara Bhatta said, "Venerable Sir, you are lonely. I have a daughter to marry. Please become my son-in-law," And the venerable ascetic said, "What may I do with a wife? I have all my five austerities to perform." To this
Ishwara Bhatta made answer, "No, Venerable Sir, it is meet for a man to marry and found family and hearth, that sacrifice be made. Aye, Sir, fulfil the duties of a householder." And the venerable man said, "So be it, so be it," whereupon Ishwara Bhatta took tulasi leaf and water and gave the daughter unto the venerable ascetic. Then he said, "I go. Be happy, daughter and son-in-law, and running towards the setting sun, he went. He went and he went, he went very far.
'As he journeyed thus he came to a lonesome house, and knocked and said, "A pilgrim, lady! a pilgrim." And the inmate said, "Oh, what an auspicious thing! The Master of the House has gone on pilgrimage, and has not returned this twelve-year or more, and I weep." And she wept. "Oh, do not weep, Lady," said Ishwara Bhatta, and when he was fed and had feasted and rested, he called her and told her the Story of Rama. Then he went, just where the sun sets there he went, did Ishwara Bhatta.
'When he had gone on leagues and leagues, the day turned into the heat of summer, and the nights turned into the chill of winter, still he went, he went towards Benares.
And when he had gone far, very far, he came on a lonely wheat-field; and a voice said, "Traveller, stay." And he stayed. The old man, the owner of the field, was blind; his son had gone on a journey, and no one had news of him for many round moons and suns. His wife and father waited for him to return, while the fields became full of weeds and parrots. Oh, the parrots, they were too many. "The Old Father sits on the perch-hut and shouts at them," explained the daughter-in-law, "but they are so clever: they come from all sides, and he is blind. What can we do?" Then Ishwara Bhatta sat then and there, and told them the Story of Rama. "Rama, Rama, give us wealth and give us splendour; give us the eight riches auspicious, give us an heir, give us a home and sanctuary, give us earth and gardens; those who go to towns distant, may they return, may the body be firm and innocent; give eyes to the blind, legs to the lame, give speech to the dumb. Rama, Sri Rama, give us Thy presence and Thy blessings. And daughter," said Ishwara Bhatta to the daughter- in-law of the house, "tell the Story of Rama every Saturday-it will bring you things auspicious." And with many and varied polite compliments he went.
'When he had gone far, very far, he came upon an open sward in the forest. And as he stood there, They appeared amidst lightning and peals of thunder; there They stood, Rama and Sita, Lakshmana, Bharatha and Satrugnya, with the faithful Hanuman behind Them. There was such music, arfa so holy a look on the face of the Lord, and, flowers, petals upon petals sailing and raining on the earth, that Ishwara Bhatta fell on his eight-parts and arose. And when he stood, the Lord of Com- passion vouchsafed him many a blessing, and said, "The pil- grimage is fulfilled; let the pilgrim return to hearth and home." Then having contemplated the face of the Lord, Ishwara Bhatta turned southwards, with benediction in his heart. And the world looked holy and full of light and gentility.
'Now when he returnerl, he came to the blind man and his fields. "O, Brahmin, sir, O, Brahmin, sir, how wondrous to be- hold your sacred looks again. No sooner had you told the Story of Rama and left than my Father-in-law, blind these two score years and more, had his eyes given back. "There, there, the parrots,' he said; and now he flings his catapult at them, and they fly away." "Sir, we kept guards at the north and the west that the returning pilgrim be brought home; and Guest, sir," said the daughter-in-law, "please be seated." And she laid leaf and silver vessels before him and gave him the meats of the pilgrim. Ishwara Bhatta said, "Wonderful, wonderful." And when he had risen and had washed his hands, he sat on the veranda and told them the Story of Rama again. He had hardly told them the Story than the son, staff and satchel in hand, bare and be- draggled, so long gone atravelling, returned. And as he entered he said, "Father, you can see!" and the Father said, "Yes, I can see now, for I have heard the Story of Rama." After telling them the Story again, Ishwara Bhatta wended his way homewards. 'Going and still going along Ishwara Bhatta came after nights and jungles, rivers and many wild spaces awesome to behold that make the hairs stand on end-to the country where the lonely woman was. "Now, sir, learned and auspicious Brahmin, hardly had you turned to the north, than my husband returned from the west." And they both stood by Ishwara Bhatta, she serving many meats and sweet dishes, while the husband waved a peacock-feather fan to the pilgrim. Then when he had eaten and washed, and had partaken of the betel nuts and presents, as he started to go he told the Story of Rama to the united couple. "Rama, Rama..."
'And then he went, and the rains came, and he saw the new creepers of the autumnal woods, and the birds with fresh-washed plumage, and the fields rich with rippling harvests. He came nearer home, and when he entered the hermitage of his son-in- law, bright was the home with grandchildren and daughter. And having partaken of all the offerings of the daughter and son- in-law, and blessing the children as he rose to go, the daughter said, "Tell the cruel Mother, I am happy," And he said, "Nay, nay, not thus. After all, it was she who bure thee, Daughter, and one does not speak ill of that which bears one." The daughter said, "So be it Father"; and he sat himself down by the pool of the hermitage and told them the Story of Rama. "Rama, Rama..." Soon, very soon he would be home again, and would see with these God-seen eyes the son, Brahma Bhatta, and the wife and the cattle and the bright Nine-pillared House.
'But here after the traveller had first gone forth, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday came, and then Thursday, and auspicious Friday of the woman. And on Saturday Brahma Bhatta said, "Mother, come; it's Saturday and we'll tell the Story of Rama." But his Mother said, "Son, wait; I will go and give rice-water to the cattle. Measure the grain for pounding." And with this and that the morning went by, and the evening fell and the Story of Rama was not said. The next day was Sunday and then came Monday, then Tuesday, and Wednesday, and Thursday.... And on Saturday the Mother said, "Come son, it's Saturday, and we must tell the Story of Rama." And the Son said, "Mother, I've to go to the fields, and look after the sowing and the manuring, and the repairing of canals." And the day went and evening came and the Son did not return. When he returned, he was so tived he had no breath, and his face was all covered with sweat and dust. Brahma Bhatta washed and came to the kitchen. "Poor Child, he's so tired," said the Mother; and the Story of Rama was not told.
"The Saturday went, and Sunday and. Monday, and when Saturday came again the Story was not said. Week after week went by, and there were always the cattle to look after, and the sowing to be done. The byre roof started falling and the pillars of the house, and cracks appeared on the walls; the fields be- came fallow, and yet the Story of Rama was not tolu. Sickness came and old age, and the house fell and the lands were all sold; the cattle had died of this pest and that, and stubble beard had appeared on the face of the San-and the Father did not return.
'One day, however, passing travellers brought the news, that the Pilgrim was returning to the Village-and all with fife and turban, garland, scents, and umbrella, they went to the Village gate. There he was, the returning Pilgrim, who had seen the Face of Sri Rama. Bright was Ishwara Bhatta's face like a million suns effulgent, and he had grown neither old nor young, so steady his looks, so kind his eyes. And when Bhagirathi fell at his feet and rose, he said, "Who may'st thou be, Lady?" for so dishevelled was she. And when Brahma Bhatta fell at his Father's feet prostrate and arose, the returning Pilgrim said, "Who may'st thou be, sir?" for he had such a stubble beard, and many a tooth had gone, and he was so fibrous. "Father, I'm your son," said Brahma Bhatta. Ishwara Bhatta was so moved, he wept and said, "Son, how has this become?" And they told him, "This is so, Master of the House; thus it was and thus it is." And the Master of the House said, "I am so sorrow- ful. Have you told the Story of Rama on Saturday?" Then Brahma Bhatta said, "No, Father, when I went to Mother, Mother was busy with the kitchen; and when she came to say, 'Son, it's Saturday, the day of the Story of Rama,' I had to go to the collection in the fields. What with this person and that, week after week went by." And the Mother said, "The Nine-Pillared House is falling, and the cattle all dead. Oh! Oh!" she cried. So Ishwara Bhatta said, "Tchi, Tchi, sinners," and told them then and there the Story of Rama. "Rama, Rama...."
'And no sooner did he start telling them the Story of Rama, than the house rose on its pillars and the granary stood on its four walls; the cattle began to low from the bright-red byre, and there were servants and bailiffs, and the carriage-house full of carriages and chariots. A chariot of four white horses stood at the Village gate, and with music and procession the villagers brought back the returning Pilgrim. The Son had grown so young to look at, and the Wife with marks auspicious of venerable splendour. Then she said, "How is She, my Daughter?" And he said, "Oh, they are happy together. I married her off to a worthy ascetic. And they have many children, and a shining house." The music and four white horses now stood at the door. And thus with many mantras and aspersion ceremonies Ishwara Bhatta, who had seen the face of Sri Rama, returned to his noble Nine- Pillared House.
*Rama, Rama, Sri Rama, give us wealth and give us splendour; give us the eight riches auspicious, give us an heir, give us a home and sanctuary, give us earth and gardens; those who go to lands distant, may they return, may the body be firm and innocent; give eyes to the blind, give legs to the lame, give speech to the dumb. Rama, Sri Rama, Rama, give us Thy Holy Presence."
Little Mother had hardly finished the Story of Rama than a car stopped at the door. "That must be Saroja,' whispered Little Mother. She went to open the door, and said, 'Saroja, I'll offer you now the best jewel you could ever have at your wedding- the only diamond that's true.' When Saroja came in and saw me, tears began to roll down her cheeks, for she thought of Father and not of me. 'You've come to bless me, my brother,' she said. 'It's so large-minded of you to have come.' And like a child, like a doe in fear, she curled herself and sat against my knee, protected. Little Mother distributed the sugar and bengal-gram and we sat for a silent meal.
Those were days of pain, of such a luminous, nameless pain, but there was no cruelty about it.
Men and women came in and out to decide whether this sari was good or the other, peacock-blue one; whether the opposite party should be given Dharmawaram saris or only cotton Kanchi ones And the gold sovereign will do the rest. The cooks, fat-bellied, belching, bejewelled, snuff in their palms and money tucked away at their waists, came in to ask if one needed a thousand laddus or a thousand two hundred, and whether the laddus would be for the second day or the third, and whether milk had been ordered for the khir, and saffron, almond, and sugar. The house began to fill increasingly with neighbours making pappadams, the Brahmins came and showed their thirty-two teeth, knowing that now the Master of the House was come-*And from London too,' they said between themselves— there would be nothing lacking in honour and silver. The bam- boos for the pandal began to arrive too, 'Where shall they lay the bamboos, Mother?' asked Baliga, the servant. 'Not here, you silly fool. Is there place here to erect a pandal, say? You have them taken to Engineer Shivaram's house. There you'll find everybody you need.'
Of course Uncle Seetharamu was there, and my cousins Seetha, Parvathi, Papa, Lakshimdevi, Nanja, Sita, Cauvery, Anandi, Ventalakshmi, Bhagirathi, and Savithri. (This Savitnri was a lean and haggard thing, having borne four children in succession, year after year; her belly was round and her breasts indeterminate.) Father's cousins Ramachandra and Lakshminarayna were there too, gay with laughter, and spontaneous pun. Sanscrit, Kannada, Urdu, Telugu, English, were full of contradictory significances, so a word in this language meant something to me and something quite different to you, and so you laughed. Smutty stories, too, there must have been and many, as the coolies were laying the palm leaves on the roof, and the string was being tied to hold the pillar decorations.
Green cloth, with white lilies covered the bamboos, and someone, in patriotism, hung a huge, crude picture of Mahatma Gandhi, paper garland and all, to show our devotion to the Father of the Nation. Nobody had the courage to remove the picture, so we were protected from every form of criticism. Ladies now came in and out of the place, with inore and more silk on them, and their gaiety and their fussations were always amusing. The men were good for nothing in these affairs. They would go straight to the kitchen and talk to Little Mother, whether she was playing or feeding, or shut up in the bathroom having a bath, or away in the garden and in some unmentionable place. Fortunately Little Mother had her 'month' this time quite carly, and as she could not go into the kitchen, she was available to anybody at any time, so the work went on the quicker. People began to arrive by train. My cousins, Raghu, or Chandu (he who worked in All-India Radio) went to receive them, and the visitors were put up with Sanjivayya or Finance-Office Sankarnarayan Iyer. Now that the examinations were over, it was a splendid time for the young. Saroja's joy was golden you would have thought, if you had not known her. But she used to sit by me, as I lay in my room, and I spoke to her of Madeleine and myself, or of Georges and his forthcoming marriage with Catherine, for I ta'ked a great deal. She wished she had been a European woman; it would have given her so much freedom, so much brightness.
'What freedom?' I exclaimed. "The freedom of foolishness. In what way, Saroja, do you think Catherine or Madeleine is better off than you?'
"They know how to love."
'And you?'
'And we know how to bear children. We are just like a motor- car or a bank account. Or, better still, we are like a comfortable salary paid by a benign and eternal British Government. Our joy is a treasury receipt.'
'Oh, it'll be all right, Saroja. Time and experience soften all things."
'But a mother-in-law is a mother-in-law, and she can bring tears to your eyes. And the sisters-in-law, and the brothersin- law...'
'Times have changed, Saroja.'
'Not in India yet--and certainly not among Brahmins. You had better wait till you see my in-laws. They already think I'm a cloth in their wash-basket: they'll know when to beat me against the stone, to make me white as milk. We girls are thrown to other families as the most intimate, the most private of our clothes are thrown to the dhobi on Saturday morning. Like cotton, we women must have grown on trees....'
There was no answer to give. But just then a jeweller butted in to take a wax impression of Saroja's palm or finger or wrist, and some flower-seller asked whether she wanted jasmines in the morning and roses in the evening, on the second day. "Throw your flowers to the Musa river, and drink a warm cup of milk afterwards,' Saroja spat back.
'Don't say inauspicious things,' Little Mother admonished from the inner courtyard.
The lizards on the wall were merry. There were lots of flies, for there were piles of rice and jaggery, and bananas, besan for laddus, and pappadams lay drying all over the terrace. Our maid Muthakka's child, a bay of five, sat noiselessly somewhere saying 'Hoy-Hoy' against the crows and the flies. And when the flies went back to their walls to feed on their discoveries, the lizards slowly, without effort, discovered them. Everybody must have their share of marriage.
The guavas became red on the trees-and never was the jasmine so profuse with flowers. A marriage at home,' quoted Little Mother, maketh well-water rise to lip of earth."
'Between a funeral and a marriage,' said Saroja, 'there isn't much to choose. In both you have Brahmins with mantras whether it is in Benares or here, it makes no difference-and in both you have the pandal first, and then music in front, flowers, bright shawls, fire. The only difference is that in one you are two, and in the other you are alone.... Saroja was thinking of Father. 'There, you see,' she went on, 'they're bringing the mango leaves, and they'll erect the pandal now...." Little Mo her listened to all this and said nothing. She looked towards me for help.
'God knows,' she said, when Saroja had gone somewhere, fooling about in her restlessness, 'God knows, Rama, he's such a nice person, is Subramanya. Not because he's my own cousin's son do I praise him; not because he's Audit Officer with the Government of India do I praise him; but he's so deferential, so clean. True, he's not refined like you people are, but then all sorts must live in the world to make it a world. If your grand- father had looked at me and my great learning, would he have chosen me for your father, even for a third marriage? A woman has to marry, whether she be blind, deaf, mute, or tuberculous. Her womb is her life, and we cannot choose our men. True, in your part of the globe, in Europe, they say they choose their own husbands, and I've seen all this in the cinemas. But we are not Europeans. We are of this country-we are Brahmins. Well, yours was a destiny, strange, magnificent; you were always a favourite of the gods. How like a prince, a god, you looked as you came and stood in the Sanctuary, Rama. You are not of this, our earth.'
'From where am I then, Little Mother?' I laughed. 'Well, I do not know. You are made differently. There you are, a boy bright as you, going to Europe, winning big University degrees and you do not drink, eat meat, or smoke; nor take on those vulgar ways Belur Krishnappa's third son or Modi Venk- taramayyas's son-in-law had when they came back-with ugly pipes in their mouths and talking to their mothers as if they were charwomen of the household. And they would soon have to eat at tables and wear European clothes even at home. It must have been your mother, that holy lady,' she said, pointing to my mother's big picture on the wall, 'that made you thus.' There was a desperate little silence, and then Little Mother continued: 'This time, Rama, you won't abandon us, will you? Even the fire knows you are here-from the day you came it has purred and purred.... A man at home is like a god in the temple.' To Little Mother a proverb always meant an incontrovertible truth. 'You will like Subramanya,' she added after a moment. 'He's just the man to keep under yoke a betwixt-left-and-right girl like Saroja....
I lay on my bed in the afternoons, aloof and silent; waiting for something to happen-anything.
One afternoon-it must have been some two or three days before the marriage-the postman dropped a letter in through the window. It was from Madeleine, and this is what it said:
'Rama, mon ami,
In the width of vast and varied spaces, I feel there is always a spot for happiness. Our unhappiness comes from the fact that we do not know what to choose, and when to choose. Life could be filled with pepper-mills-the whole of the equator could be lined up with the silly wooden and iron contraptions, for triturating black pepper over salad or baked potatoes. But one can also stop before a jasmine or a rose (like the one you planted last autumn, which has such lovely fed, claret-red roses) and see the pattern of existence-know that all is everywhere, joy is in the instant; that what Georges calls God must be somewhere hereabouts, in the garden, perhaps, between the rows of petits-pois. When leave the water-hose on near the cypress by the gate, the water gurgles and subsides, flowing evenly to the petits-pois, the jasmine and the roses.
This is just to tell you, sad though I am, that I think of you a great deal, and know you in many small things. For example, I miss you when the bathroom is not splashed about with water, or the pencil is not broken as it lies on your table. Women may grumble at their husband's lack of consideration for them and for things, but our grumbling itself is a form of our love. Look at the letters of Eloise to Abelard, full of grumbles to her Lord in bed and her Lord in Christ. A woman must grumble-it's her biological defence against the strength of man. I put flowers before your books, and light sandal-sticks at your table.
'I wonder how you feel back in India, back in your family. We who are brought up in Europe-and especially of late singing Gide's "Famille, je vous hais" like an incantation, like a mantra for us any person other than a brother or sister is an outa'der, an enemy. Sartre's "L'ennemi, c'est l'autre", is the con- tinuance of Gide's dictum. I know your father did not meant much to you, but your family does, I think. I've seen such joy on your face when I said, "A letter from India--from Saroja." Love them for me-for I can love no one but you.
'I often ask, lying in my bed, and reaching out in my feeling and touch to that which you have created in me, and which I continue to feed and to fulfil, what it is that brought us together, and what it is that will keep us together. Love is something so indefinable-though we glib Europeans use the word frequently -one cannot possibly love a body (made of the eighteen dhatus, elements, as the Buddhist Nagasena told the Greek King Men- ander). One cannot love that mirror with a thousand false facets called the mind, which hates what it once adored and fears what it once cared for so dearly! Beyond the body and the mind there may be the heart, but what does it mean? Is it that pumping machine, which feeds our veins with red blood. Can haemoglobules be a proof of love? We are such ignorant people. Every word seems a neologism or a tautology. I often laugh at Georges, who seriously talks of the monads of Leibnitz or the love intellectual of Spinoza as if they were eternal entities, just as Lavoisier thought of oxygen and hydrogen as chemical fun- damenta that were pre-ordained in some timeless textbook of God. But as Einstein came and upset the orderly, solid, Mon- sieur Hommais universe of our ancestors, India may still upset the Saint-Sulpice of Georges Khuschbertieff. Then hurrah to the Himalay!
'Do I love you, I often ask myself? When I say that I mean, do I love you as Buddha loved Ananda...? "Ananda, dear Ananda do not grieve that the Enlightened One, the one who was like a father unto thee, has gone. Say, rather, 'I shall be like a flame unto myself,' and shine." To help others be-to let the flower flower, let the water flow; to accept that birth and death are cycles, the affirmation of something; that is what love should be. Love should not be different from Truth. But could love be where Truth alone is? Could the sun be tender or the sound gentle? We make tenderness and gentleness. Shine on me, my Rama; as you see I am becoming a good wife.
'MADO."
'P.S. I should not worry you with medical things, but Dr Contreaux says, though he is not anxious really speaking- my reactions are very normal-that the X-ray is a little blurred in places. I am so fat, Rama, and pink as a Charentaise. I am glad you are not here to see me: I prefer it this way. I have to go again to see Dr Contreaux next week, and I shall write to you. You know how wonderful it is to have happy Catherine about in the house. But I miss you much. Come back quickly, and do not go out in the sun too much: I don't like a dark husband. And cut your hair, so that it is not like a medical student's. After all, I am a teacher at the local Collège, and such things do count. "C'est le mari de Madame la Professeuge... etc." And forgive the bourgeoise that I am. My affettion to Saroja. M.' For some reason I was angry, but I could not name the name of my anger. Maybe it was for Saroja.
Two days later, I made my first visit to the bridegroom and his uncles, aunts, and elder brothers-they had at last arrived-and my indignation became heavy, silent, firm. I came home and there was a cable waiting for me. This time it was from Savithri. It was from Cambridge, and said: 'Be happy for me. In your joy is my freedom. And greetings to Saroja."
I understood it. I must make this marriage a success. I must strive and pray, work myself into a state of happiness, and bring joy and rainshine to others. My happiness was forfeit, but who could prevent me from the gift of joy? Who could stop me making Little Mother and Saroja happy, and Saroja's ugly, big, lieuttenant-looking husband-for he did look so military: governments must make people responsible, heavy, and authoritative. Yes, I would make Subramanya happy. I would make the whole world happy.
I was going to be happy myself. I found joy in the notes of the serpent-clarionet for the music had already begun and I went about the invitation-rounds, shouted at the Brahmins, saw to the cars being duly sent to the station for the right trains and the right people, had a look at the horse, a fine white Arab that was to carry the bridegroom to the pandal, I sang hymns in the house and at seven-the bridegroom-procession was to be at nine in the evening-I took Saroja on a walk to the temple .'What a thing to be done on such an auspicious evening!' grumbled Little Mother. But I wanted to give myself and Saroja a last chance in space, for some understanding, some statement of the truth. I walked heavily but quickly: Saroja was like a filly dancing about the mother-elephant. 'Brother, what shall I do, what shall I do?" 'Do about what, Saroja?'
Oh, Brother, I want to run away, run away, anywhere. I cannot marry him. I must not marry him. It is selfish of me to marry a man whom I detest, I look down upon. I think I only like his car, his position; and the feeling that he's like Father. Since you came I have understood better, Brother. Brother, take me away.'
It was ho moment for cowardice. I, the head of the family, could not be a coward; I could not, should not let down anyone in the world. That was my dharma. We came to the Hanuman temple. I bought a coco-nut and Betel leaves, I bought camphor and sandal-sticks, and we gave them for worship. The God seemed so happy, so serene and confirmed in his devotion to his Lord, his Master, Sri Rama. We circumambulated, and sat on the rocks for a moment. Of course, Saroja will be happy. We make our own happiness. Yes, Madeleine, haemoglobules make for happiness. Madeleine, I shall make you happy. 'Saroja, when you're married you'll come and live with us in Aix. And you'll look after my little daughter.' Saroja did not answer. I had betrayed her. Then rising, she said, 'After all, the dead body, when it goes to the crematorium, must feel happy. It does not say, "No, I'll go back, I'll go back and be a ghost". How could it? I have flowers and music, lots of people around me and I shall be married....'
We came down the hill in silence. Already at the bridegroom's house the pipers had started their music. Cars were rushing up and down the street and the Hudson lights had come; they came one by one, as if they wished to be counted. I slipped round to see if everything was in order. The horse, bejewelled with neck- lace and gold anklets and yellow scarf at his neck, stood behind the gate, while the groom was chewing his betel away.
Inside the house there was the terrific noise of man believing he could create happiness. If Yogis could will and raise them- selves above the earth, I thought, happiness, too, could be created. What was wrong with haemogobules anyway. They were beautiful to look at-like rubies. And man, after all, takes. a woman to his bed and makes her happy. I felt I could have taken a coco-nut-one of those hanging in the pandal tied to bamboo pillars and sent it straight at Subramanya's head. Murder, too, could be joy: haemoglobules have no ethical standards. For them joy is,when they can enter the heart at a certain rhythm. I wished I could have gone to the Stag and talked to Julietta about anything. Did the Thames still flow? Had Aristotle said anything interesting? Was there a British Museum with a cupola on its head like a chapel? I suddenly remembered a passage I had read in some huge history of Cam- bridge, which I had accidently stumbled upon in the British Museum. A bridge across the Cam was permitted by the authorities because the monks from Clare Hall had wished to take their horses to graze across the river:
"Your petitioners doe humblie begg of your most sacred Mais that they be suffered at their owne chardge to land a bridge over ye river and enjoy a passadge through ye. But-close into ye field, which would be of great benefitt to your petitioners, especially in times of infecion, having no passadge into ye fields but through ye chappel yard of your said Kings Colledge, ye gates whereof are shutt up in those tymes of danger....'
Saroja went into her room on the top floor and shut herself in. I knocked and knocked, and she called out, 'Brother, leave me to myself for a moment.' Little Mother came and said, 'Rama, it's already half past eight, and at nine the procession will pass before our house. I must tell you what to do. Come, Son.' So I washed quickly, and clothed myself in white Aurangabad satin, with chudidar pyjamas, and I combed my hair, remembering Made- leine's admonitions. All the women were gathered under the pandal, and there was a smell of camphor, Lucknow perfumes, and betel leaves; the shine of white teeth, the splendour of black and gold saris, the magnificence of ear-rings, neckbands, nose- drops, diamond-marks on the forehead-an innocent joy which showed that man was made for natural happiness. The women grew silent as I came down the steps, carrying the silks and muslin in my silver plate, with attar-bottles, sandal-sticks, flowers. Then everybody burst out laughing. 'What a hoary Head of the Family! Aunt Sita said; 'He looks more the bridegroom than the other.' Little Mother gave her such a look.
The music started; on the other street gunfire went off; the vulgar brass band started playing some military march, with Indian-style music being piped amidst, in between and behind it all; and when the procession turned into our street and I stood under the pandal, awaiting to honour the bridegroom, I looked up at the house. It was absolutely silent: Saroja's window was closed. By now the Brahmins had raised their voices; they were powerful and magical, the hymns. It was such a long time since I had heard them. I threw flowers to the bridgeroom, spread sweet-scented perfumes on his clothes, gave him honey and milk and melted butter to taste-I dipped my jasmine in silver cups and placed it on his gutstretched tongue-sprinkled. him with rose-water, and anointed him with kunkum and turmeric; I begged him in melodious Sanscrit, repeating syl- lable by syllable what the Brahmins enunciated, to marry my sister and found a hearth and household. He agreed nobly on his horse, and the women sang hymns of victory, of joy:
Why, O Lord of Brindavan, O Krishna, O Why, but in compassion didst thou stray amidst us. O Son of Janaki? O thou beloved of Radha, beautiful.
The horse was splendid-it seened to understand songs in Kannada and hymns in Sanscrit. The music moved on. I led the procession, and it went through the dust of the evening, the beauty of cooled summer streets, round the Hyder Ali Road, Mohammed Bagh, Residency Corner, Mahatma Gandhi Main- Road, and round about the Clock-tower to the Hanuman temple. I was not feeling well. I did not go up to the temple. 'Uncle Seetharamu,' I said, 'my chest is giving me some trouble. Do you mind if I slip out? Don't frighten anyone. Say I have gone home to get something." 'Oh, one can't say that? It's too inauspicious a thing to do.'
"Then, Uncle Seetharamu, I'll sit in one of the waiting cars.'
I slipped into Dr Sunadarm's car; the old ladies and pregnant women were all huddled together, but they made space for me, and I sat there breathing with some difficulty. Haemoglobules after all have their own laws. I was choking, but I was the head of the family. Little Mother looked so happy: Sukumari was bright and full of fun.
It seemed an epoch before the procession came down the hill.
'Here is some coffee for you.' Uncle Seetharamu slipped in to warm me up. 'I cannot give you anything stronger in front of everyone.' I did not want anything stronger; the coffee revived me. The procession started moving again. People, common people, gathered on both sides of the street to see us pass by. How many women looked enviously at us! They had also known this, and their daughters would soon know it too. The bridegroom in his grey-green achkan, a necklace of diamonds on his chest, looked a Prince. He threw, two-anna pieces and four-anna pieces that his elder brother gave him for the bridegroom's father was dead and the streets were smelling of flowers. When the procession turned into the bridegroom's street, Uncle Seetharamu said, 'Now, you can give us the slip. But come back quickly.' A car was waiting for me on a side street; I jumped into it and went home. The whole garden was brightly lit, and was still smelling of flowers and sandal-stick. The servants and Tiger were all at the door, trying to see the procession come back. I bade them stand where they were and went in. But Tiger followed me into the veranda. The house seemed so lonely, so full of its own laral presence. For the first time I wept for Father. And Tiger went back to see the procession. After a wash and a rest I went up the staircase slowly. 'Saroja,' I whispered, 'Saroja, open the door."
Is it you, Ramanna,' she cried, as though something unto- ward had happened.
'Yes, open the door,' I begged. She was in the same sari as when I had left her, but there was no flower in her hair. She seemed to have had a wash lately, for her side locks were combed down and wet.
'Brother, what has happened to you? You look so pale.'
'Oh, nothing; it's just that I am a little unwell.'
'Lie down, Brother,' she said, so very tenderly, and made me stretch myself on her bed. She took a fan and began fanning me. It was cool as I lay.
'What is it you are reading?' I asked, seeing a book half-open by my face on the pillow.
Oh, it's nothing. I was reading The Magic Mountain." To this day I know not whether, it was The Magic Mountain that did it, or just that the haemoglobules wanted their own release, their own joy, but I sat up and burst my blood all over Saroja's sari and on the floor. She seemed so courageous, wiping my mouth, rubbing the floor, and gently removing the sheets from my leed; then she went to Father's cupboard-for this was Father's room-and gave me some old brandy which nobody had ever touched. It revived me, and when Uncle Seetharamu came, he had only to look and he understood.
'Poor boy-should the sins of mothers pursue their sons?' he said, patting me on my forehead. 'I said you had a mild attack of asthma, when they asked me. Take your time; I shall say the attack is subsiding. The music is growing strong, and it can go on for a long time. One can stretch a rega for hours: I'll ask Anandi Bai to end her "Bharath Milan" at four in the morning. Good girl you are, Saroja,' said Uncle Seetharamu, as though he understood everything, 'to have such a brother.'
I must have gone to sleep for a very long time, because when I opened my eyes I saw Little Mother sitting beside me, fanning. 'We have no luck, in the family, no luck. To have a beautiful and bright son like you, and to have this. Ah, after that last illness of yours, your father said: He looks just like his mother, Sanna, just like her! He's frail as an acacia flower.'
Death did not disturb me. But Saroja burst into tears. She said, 'Brother, promise to come and stay with me. I will look after you.'
I said, 'I promise.' It made everybody happy. I think it made me happy, for my breathing became just a little kinder.
Uncle Seetharamu rushed in and said, 'Don't you worry, Rama, I've arranged it all. I said your air travel had upset you, that you have diarrhoea. That settles everything. Don't you have diarrhoea tomorrow,' he added crudely, 'or I'll have to produce a commode before everybody, and that's a damn' difficult thing. He spoke in English and Little Mother did not understand, but the three of us laughed.
'What a grand person to have about in the marriage house,' I said, turning to Saroja. All time-servers,' spat Saroja. 'When they see you here it's all milk and sugar-candy, but once you're out of sight they look at the sky, although we're standing at eye-level. There's no love lost between all of us since Father went,' she added, and we were silent.
Saroja brought bedding from the other room, and laid it on the floor. "They say, Brother, I should pray the whole of to- night, What better prayer for me than to look after you. Let us sleep now, and wake me up when you want me. Please do. And to the world, Little Mother, you could say I am in fervent prayer.'
Little Mother was very sad, but she left us. She could not understand this new, university-created world, as she called it. "To learn English is easy, it may take only a few years. But to say "Rama-Sita Krishna-Govinda" it takes many lives. The young will never understand,' she muttered to herself, and left us.
Once or twice when I opened my eyes, Saroja was still at her Thomas Mann. She had washed the blood off the cover, and with the light low she was reading, it seemed to me with interest. I was defeated. I slept.
In the broad morning, as I woke, the house was full of auspi- cious noises: the musicians were busy with mangalacharanam, and in the bathroom the women were singing away. Saroja was having the lustration of the nine waters, and her young body was being prepared for its ultimate destiny. The fire and incense for drying must have been lit, for I could smell the acridity of in- cense even upstairs.
'Baliga,' I cried, and the servant came running.
'How is the Master?' he asked. 'So often has the Lady of the House come up and gone down, to see if the Master was awake. There is hot water in the bathroom next door. By the time the Master washes his teeth, I will bring up some hot coffee.'
'Tell Little Mother I am awake and better,' I said, and went as far as the door to look over the inner courtyard. What blues and greens of saris, what diamonds, rubies and sapphires were seen to glint. And by the tulasi Saroja was drying her spread hair on the fire-basket while the women were busy anointing her with henna and turmeric. Mango-leaves and silver pots were to be seen all over the veranda, and how,happy the women looked as they sang: Laving in the waters of the young stream,
Donning the garments sacramental, Slowly, ever so silently, adoring Shiva the Lord She became a spouse, sister. O, to happy Parvathi, Raise the censor, wave the kunkum-water, O holy happiness, for ever and ever, Auspicious happiness be. The white hibiscus, the garland of round jasmines- To the parting of the Moon's hair, Sister, Pour pearls.
Not my heart, but somehow my belly seemed empty-and I wanted to throw out something again. Children were crying loudly outside and the crows from the coco-nut tree did not stop their festival. Soon the sun would be hot-and at eleven o'clock the wedding was to be.
When I went in to wash I could see how much blood I had thrown out the night before. I must have thrown much even on Saroja, for her sari stowed away behind the bath-tub showed deep red blots. I washed myself with some difficulty, and when I went back to my bed Little Mother was there with the coffee.
'Oh, I am glad you're up, Rama,' she began, 'You cannot imagine how difficult your sister is. To make her sit or stand you needed a hundred women, to plead, sing paeans and cajole. At last we'd had enough. I sent word to Uncle Seetharamu and he came and stood there, his tongue like a temple bell; since he's come, everything has been moving well. It makes all the dif ference whether there is a man in the house or not.'
Before I had taken two sips of coffee Uncle Seetharamu was there, with his gold-lace upper-cloth round his waist and diamond rings on his fingers; he was clearly feeling very breathless.
"Wake up and come and help me, Brother,' he said. 'We all know you are a delicate, tiptoeing family, but this cajoling and begging I can't do it any more. A woman is a woman and she must obey, even if she's got a first-class University degree. I've done my job with Saroja. Now, you take charge of her," he begged.
I rose with some difficulty. Baliga brought me my shaving things and hot water for the bath. The music sounded; cars, horse-carriages, bicycles and bicycle-rickshaws came in and went out of the gate; women raised their voices, singing:
And eight are her virtues in which she's clad, Gauri, much the prayer that's gone, that the Lord open the Eye.
I could hear someone come in and say, 'It's already half past nine, and nobody is ready. The mohurtham¹ is at eleven seventeen." I rose and looked at my watch: it was only about nine o'clock. So I washed quickly, had my case sent up, and put on my new dhoti with a red-gold border, my Lucknow waistcoat, and the beautiful shawl Saroja had bought for me, with lacquer-coloured rudrakshi band against a line of fine gold. Sukumari, who came to fetch me, combed my hair and cried: 'Ramanna, you look so pale-but what a Prince! And proudly she put her hand in mine, and gently led me down the stairway. She wanted the entire world to see and absorb me.
But the whole house seemed empty by now. The women had all gone to the other house'. Carpets were deranged, flower-garlands were withering in corners, children were asleep on half-open beds, and smells of incense and children's urine wandered everywhere, with no one to smell them. Even Tiger seemed to have decided to go and smell the marriage-pandal and have a look at the holy Brahmins. I sat in my room and Suku- masi said: 'You cannot imagine how full of auspicious looks Saroja is, Brother. She is beautiful. What a bride! And to think those wretched people will have her.' And she left me suddenly, as though her words sat in the throat like a gunny-bag-needle. Soon I could hear her whispering away downstairs-perhaps it was to Saroja, for I knew Saroja must be doing her Gauri-puja at the sanctuary. I was afraid someone would come and say, "They are all waiting for you. Come, Rama, Come.' But no one came, and that tumultuous silence was too much for me to bear. I was the younger brother of the world. I tried to tell myself I was the head of the household, and I must be strong. But to give away Saroja-she seemed more like me at moments than my own self.
I gathered myself into myself, forced my thoughts out of their The exact astrological time fixed for tying the tali round the neck of the bride. This is the most important part of the wedding ceremonies. orbits, and withdrew into my own inner recesses where peace is like a river in the night, ever present, with fishes, shoals and reefs if you would venture out under the round stars-awake. My ill- ness gave my thoughts strength, no doubt, and I must have gone far deep into myself, for when I awoke I found Saroja's hand on my head.
'Do you suffer much, Brother?' she asked. 'But your breathing seems more normal today.' Her voice was light, clear, and like a child's simple. She stood a long while, playing with my hair. Then suddenly, as though she had taken courage in her heart, she came in front of me; her peacock-blue sari, her gold-serpent belt, her diamond ear-rings, the turmeric on her face, the mango- gold necklace, gave her a sense of the important, of the in- evitable. Her eyes were long and dark, but she closed them, folded her hands, knelt and touched my feet and begged: 'Brother, bless me. I need only your tender hands, your firm protective hands over my head."
She lay long thus, without a sob, a movement. Then she rose and stood in front of me. What deep maturity had come into her young face. She smiled as though I was the one she was sorry for. 'Brother, I shall bring but a fair name to the household. Do not worry. Slowly and respectfully, she slipped out of the room to the sanctuary.
I had hardly time to wipe my tears when Uncle Seetharamu came shouting from the gate, 'Rama, Rama,' and I gladly went to the 'other house' with him. Sukumari stayed back with her sister. What a magnificent assembly it was, with elders, lawyers, ministers, the wives of the Secretaries and Under-Secretaries of State, of Professors, and Raja Sahibs-it was a grand marriage. I was given the seat opposite the fire, a little to one side. How I longed for the golden, the venerable visage of Grandfather Kittanna; but he was no more. Lord, how men live and how men 'die'.
The Brahmins were happy to see me. No sooner had I come than their voices went higher and yet higher. Old friends of my father came to greet me, to ask news of me. I could see some of my father's old servants too, who bowed low to me, turban, uniform, and all. The sacrificial fire burnt, and there--the ghee was poured, and then the milk, the curd, the honey. 'Agneya namohoam... Svaha... and how much sacredness it brought to my heart. I, too, had become sacred with this sacredness. Mean- while Sukumari brought kunkum and put a large tilak on my forehead. The bridegroom looked virtuous and obedient, and there was a lustre on his somewhat commonplace features. His family was happy-he was their best-educated brother and nephew, and it was, they were sure, a very good match. The hymns rose higher and more anguished. Uncle Seetharamu dis- appeared, and returned from the back door. 'She's come,' he said, whispering in my ear. The bridegroom stood up this time, and Saroja appeared from behind me, serious, auspicious, and firm. The wedding curtain-cloth went up, and Uncle Seet- haramu held Saroja from the back of her waist. Her black bangles broke under their own pressure. The kunkum-rice got warmed in our hands. Flowers were being distributed.
A thousand eyes hath man (Purusha) A thousand eyes, a thousand feet. On every side pervading earth He fills a space ten-fingers wide. This Purusha is all that hath been And all that is to be, the Law of Immortality. When the gods prepared The sacrifice With Purusha as their offspring Its oil was spring, The holy gift was autumn, Summer was the wood. Saroja put the garland round Subramanya's neck. Little Mother was sobbing away in the corner. Sukumari joined her. Then the aunts and the great-aunts wiped their tears. I just closed my eyes. Saroja was gone from our household.
I am He, Thou art She, I am the Harmony, Thou the Words. I am the Sky Thou art Earth, Let us twain become One Let us bring forth offspring.
Even I threw flowers and kunkum-rice on the bridal couple. Happiness is a question of determination. You can be happy when you want to be happy; it is a question of haemoglobules, maybe. Happiness is in a husband, a home, children. After all, where would Saroja go?
Seven times she went round the fire making saptapadi, seven times taking the names of my ancestors Ramakrishnayya, and Ranganna, Madhavaswamy, Somasundarayya, Sanjeevayya, and Ramachandrayya, and seven times she changed her name, that she might belong where she was going. The fire burnt, the ghee went in, the flames purred and rose and asked for more. Perfume was distributed to the guests. The tali was touched by the elders first, then by the great, and then by all of us. The bridegroom tied it round Saroja's neck. 'She looked a Lakshmi,' said Aunt Subbakka to me.
Music went up, and it was wonderful, for piper Siddayya had come from Madras especially for the marriage. The women sang songs of blessing while coco-nuts were being distributed. Little Mother gathered the gold jewels, saris, silver plates, and silver vessels, as the name of each donor went up and came down according to Sanscrit rhythm. There was joy in the atmosphere. People in the pandal started smoking. They came, the visitors, one by one to press my hands, and tell me what a wonderful son I was of my father. You will soon be our colleague,' added some Professors. 'How long to do you stay on in India?' others asked.
Cars came to take them away, guest after guest-turbans, sashes, upper clothes, wrist-watches, canes, pumps, coloured handkerchiefs, garlands-they all disappeared. The bicycle- rickshaws clamoured with their unholy bells and somewhere a horse neighed. Tiger stood at the door, as if he were counting the guests, and would go and tell Father in the other world. Mean- while the musicians had to be paid, and the taxis were asking higher rates for overwork: The milk for the khir had been. spoilt. The procession this evening had to change its route- nobody had realized you should never go south first. 'Some ignorant females must have advised such an inauspicious thing,' Uncle Seetharamu concluded. I was exhausted. Slowly I rose up and went in. There was a divan meant for the bridegroom to recline on in between the ceremonies: Uncle Seetharamu took me to it and asked me to 'lie down. Sukumari stood by me, fanning me with a large, decorated palm-leaf fan. It was cool. I could smell sandal paste all over the house. Jasmine garlands. were hanging just behind me. 'It's too strong a smell for me. Could you put them away somewhere, please,' I asked. The flowers were removed, and from the kitchen came the noise of cooking laddus. They smelt delightful.
I must have gone to sleep, for I woke up, perspiring. Suku- mari was not there, but Baliga stood fanning me. Uncle Seet- haramu came in, followed by the Brahmins. The coco-nut and betel leaf and dhoti and gold-coin were ready. I placed one silver plate before each and touched their feet. 'May the house- holder, the giver of kine and gold, be blessed,' they muttered, with wrong Sanscrit accents. How very painful Sanscrit wrongly pronounced can be, I was trying to say to myself, when I rolled over and fell on a Brahmin, kicking the coco-nut and the betel- nut right across the room. They lifted me up, and Uncle Seet- hasamu said, 'Oh, it's nothing. Air journeys can be so tiring.' The Brahmins agreed with Uncle Seetharamu.
The bridegroom came and sat by me. He was full of respect and affection for his new brother-in-law. He felt proud of Saroja, and showed how honoured he felt to be a member of our family. 'I have a boss who knows France very well,' he explained. 'He knows Monte-Carlo, Paris, and the South of France. You will meet him when you come to Delhi.' His brother, younger than him, dropped in to say he had taken French for his degree. He was reading Lettres de Mon Moulin and Molière's Malade Imagi- naire. He was going to be a diplomat, he had decided. Cousin Vishweshwara's son Lakshmana came to say how delighted he was to see me. He had just returned from Cornell. He had a degree in radio engineering. The world was large and prosperous. There was no reason why I should be suffocating in this room. 'You idiots,' shouted Uncle Seetharamu, 'here is a man who's tired and wants air, and you are surrounding him as though he were on the point of digging out sacred gold.' Everybody left. Only the bridegroom remained, with his crown, perspiration, and gold on his fingers. As I closed my eyes he went, and returned with Saroja, Saroja sat at my feet, pressing my legs. I went back to sleep. It is no use giving you details of the procession, the laddu and pheni dinner at night, and the way in which the other party came to take Saroja away. Long after midnight, as Saroja sat near my bed saying nothing but fanning me, the bridal car came and the ladies invaded the house. "The bride, the bride!' they demanded, and Saroja said, 'It is time for me to go, Brother,' She laid the fan beside me and started to go. 'I'll come back soon. Get well quickly, Brother. Meanwhile I will look after the household,' she said, smiling, and went down the steps. So much gravity, decision, and responsibility had come into her that already she looked a woman.
Ladies sang songs of welcome as she came down, and laughed and asked her to name her husband, as she crossed the threshold of the house. Saroja did not need much persuading. Mr Subramanya Sastri,' she said, as if it was the name of her Professor.
All the night Little Mother sat up fanning me. I spat blood once again, but it was not too serious. I pressed her to go to the 'other house' and see the dancing and hear the music. 'Baliga will do,' I said. She went. Late in the night I could hear them come back.
Low untouchables, they be,' said Little Mother. To think we gave such a flower of our courtyard to them.'
'Ah,' rejoined Sukumari, 'till the tali is tied all is sweetness, afterwards it's the festival of the bitter neem leaf."
In the morning, as I sat drinking my coffee, who should drop in to see me but Uncle Seetharamu. 'Oh, Rama, to have given such a slip of a girl away to these cadaver-eating pariahs. They will sell their tongue for position, and the rest I cannot say before women. The whole night,' he whispered into my ears, 'the sisters. and aunts went round and round the bridal room singing ribald songs, and in the morning hardly was the cock crowing beibre they entered the bridal chamber, those widow-born did. Are we Muslim, I ask you, Muslim? What? Saroja sat in a corner and wept. Ah, the butchers did I give them a talking-to! "We don't sell meat in our houses. Sir, we marry our girls," I told them."
Little-Mother heard half of what was said: 'Shiva, Shiva,' she cried, and went into the kitchen to bring us more coffee.
Two nights later Saroja and Subramanya came to take leave of us. Little Mother had prepared all there was to give her-dolls, sheets, vessels, gods, saris, photographs of father and myself- and Saroja seemed full of smiles. She left home looking bright and fulfilled, as though she liked marriage. 'Come and spend at least a week with us in Delhi,' she begged, and looked up to her husband for support.
'The climate of Delhi is wonderful-it's a tonic,' said Sub- ramanya. Saroja was really married.
'She looks happy. After all, Rama, what more happiness does a woman need than a home, and a husband. The temple needs a bell,' Little Mother quoted some proverb, and the girl a hus- band, to make the four walls shine.'
The same afternoon Dr Pai came to examine me. He was not too alarming, but there was no question of an air journey for the moment nor the cold air of Europe. No, not even the South of France, he persisted: he knew that part of the world very well. 'Later in the summer, perhaps,' he said.
'But I have a wife, and she's going to have a baby,' I argued. 'Your wife would no doubt prefer you alive here than dead
there,' he laughed.
Little Mother was shocked at his crude remark. She beat her knuckles on her temples: what an inauspicious thing to say!
"Today medical science is so well advanced that there is no danger for a patient like you; I don't think you're such a serious case. The X-rays will tell me, once I have them. For the moment take rest. And don't you let people come and worry him,' he said, turning to Little Mother. 'In Europe, people are so under- standing about patients and diseases. Here we treat disease as thought it were a terminal examination whether you pass or fail it makes no difference. Look after yourself, old boy. After all, now that your father is no more you are the pillar of the family. You must get better."
